The video ended.
“It’s six minutes after twelve,” the Russian woman’s voice said from the cell phone. “You have less than nine hours to give me my brother.”
He lowered the phone.
Struggling not to show how agitated he was, he put the phone in his pocket and approached the safe house’s front door. As he pressed the doorbell, he peered up toward where he assumed a concealed camera watched him.
“Simon Childs,” he said. “Cassidy sent me.”
He waited while someone inside compared his face to the image in his electronic file.
A lock buzzed.
He turned the doorknob, entered, and showed his ID.
Thickly carpeted stairs led down to the left and up to the right. A man in a dark sport coat, a white shirt, and a loosened tie studied him from the bottom level. The open coat revealed a pistol in a holster on his belt.
“You looked like that phone call was bad news,” the man said.
“I’m getting married in ten days. The reception’s a logistical nightmare.”
The man nodded sympathetically. “The second time I got married, the caterer had a heart attack two days before the wedding. Cassidy says you might have seen Nick Demidov before.”
“His name isn’t familiar, but his photograph is. I think he’s someone the European task force picked up when I was in London.”
“London? Then he’s lying and he does speak English?”
“That’s one of the things I came to find out.”
He descended the stairs to a room that had a leather sofa and chair with plush cushions that showed no indication of having been sat upon. A coffee table was bare. At the far end, fake logs were stacked in a gas fireplace where blue flames wavered with artificial steadiness.
“Can’t get the chill out of this basement,” the man said.
“You’re here alone?”
He pretended to sound puzzled, when he actually felt relieved.
“Until nine p.m. when my relief checks in. No need for anyone else. The way this place is set up, one agent at a time is all that’s necessary. It’s not as if Demidov’s a heavy hitter and needs protection. But hey, maybe he’ll lead us to somebody big. I’m John Fadiman, by the way.”
They shook hands.
Then Fadiman led him into a room, where several video monitors showed the approaches to the house. Simon noticed a ring of keys and a cell phone next to a half-full coffee cup on a desk. He switched his attention to a glass wall that revealed an adjacent bedroom with little furniture. Wearing a black shirt and trousers, a dark-haired man lay on a narrow bed. His eyes were closed and his hands were folded on his chest. He had a heavy, expressionless face.
“That’s all he’s been doing since we put him in there,” Fadiman said. “Either he needs a lot of sleep, or else he’s been locked up before and knows how to pass the time.”
“That’s the man I saw in London. Are we visible to him?”
“It’s a one-way glass.”
“Then I need to go in there so Demidov can see my face. Once he recognizes me, he won’t be able to keep claiming that all he speaks is Russian.”
Fadiman nodded and stepped toward a door on the right. He pressed numbers on an electronic pad. With a soft click, the door unlocked.
The man on the bed sat up.
Fadiman opened the door. “I’ve got an old friend to see you.”
Demidov shook his head, seeming not to understand the words Fadiman used.
“Hi, Nick. Surely you remember me from London,” Simon said.
Again, Demidov shook his head, this time in what seemed genuine confusion.
“Yes, you and I and your sister had a long talk in London,” Simon continued. “If you want to see her anytime soon, you need to do what I tell you. Do you understand? Do you want to see her? Say it in English so I know we’re communicating.”
There was a flash in Demidov’s eyes. Anger? No, more disgust.
“My sister?” the prisoner asked.
“Damn,” Fadiman said. “That’s what I call fast results.”
The agent suddenly groaned as Simon thrust an arm around his throat, pulled the man’s pistol from beneath his jacket and pushed him into the room. Not knowing if Fadiman had a round in the chamber, Simon racked back the slide. Now, for sure, the weapon was ready to fire.
Fadiman held up his hands. “Are you fucking crazy?”
Standing inside the doorway where he could keep his pistol aimed at both Fadiman and Demidov, Simon ordered the Russian out.
Demidov moved smoothly past him and Simon followed, closing the door, making sure it locked. Through the glass wall he saw Fadiman charge toward the door and yank at the handle.
“Where’s my bitch sister?” Demidov asked angrily.
“Waiting.”
Simon whipped the pistol across his face.
LIZ’S EARLOBE FELT ON FIRE.
Her shoulders and wrists throbbed.
But more than anything, she was filled with rage. Adrenaline pulsing through her, she’d heard Simon talk with someone named Fadiman about Nick Demidov, the man Simon had been asking about at the FBI. The sound of a scuffle was followed by someone groaning.
Rudy and Max listened intently.
From the room’s speaker came Simon’s voice. “Let’s go, asshole. Your sister’s waiting for you.”
Max cheered. “He must’ve decked the FBI agent.”
The transmission crackled, garbling what Simon and Demidov were saying.
“Cell phone must’ve gone out of range. Simon Childs isn’t Rambo,” Rudy said. “But he busted out our Rambo!”
“Yeah, Demidov’s a hotshot,” Max said. “But that’s what it takes to run this outfit. Once he’s back, things’ll get normal again.”
“Drugs and whores,” Rudy whooped.
Max shook his head and laughed. “You’re so lame.”
Now Liz understood. Nick Demidov wasn’t a mere courier. He was the head of their Mafia clan. That’s why they’d gone to so much trouble to kidnap her and force Simon to help them.
Max set his coffee mug down on the security console. “I’m gonna celebrate the boss’s escape by taking a leak.” He hefted himself up and marched across the room toward the door on Liz’s left.
“No prob. I’ve got lots of entertainment here.”
Rudy cocked his head at Liz.
She looked away and made her voice small, frightened. “You’re not going to slam my wrists up and down again, are you?”
“That’s an idea.” Setting the big knife on the floor beside the multigym, Rudy returned to the chest press. “You’re a mess. Even if we let you live, your boyfriend would never marry you now.” He gripped the handles and pushed his arms out and away from his body.
The weights lifted.
Her wrists jolted up.
Tears slid down her cheeks from the pain, but what Rudy didn’t know was that while he’d been torturing her, the mechanism had been pounding her zip-tie cuffs. Earlier, she’d centered the tie. Since then she’d pulled her wrists wide apart to make the plastic taut every time Rudy used the machine.
Her wrists oozed blood.
Again Rudy slammed the chest press.
Clenching her jaw, Liz pulled, stretching the cuff. She thought of the Rambo movie that Rudy had described, Rambo tied to upright bedsprings, electricity making him shudder and writhe with pain and rage, furiously twisting at the rope that held him.
With a snap, the zip-tie broke, freeing her hands.
She lunged for Rudy’s knife on the floor.
Her fingers were numb from lack of circulation. She needed both hands to grab the knife and keep from dropping it. Furious, she spun upward, slashing the blade across Rudy’s throat. A deep cartilage split.
Blood spurted over her.
She stepped back. Fuck you.